


Freudian Slip

by maquira



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Same Age, Angst, Brain Damage, Complete, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle Attend Hogwarts Together, Head Boy Tom Riddle, Humor, M/M, One Shot, Quidditch Accident, Quidditch Captain Harry Potter, Temporary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 18:37:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18452303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maquira/pseuds/maquira
Summary: After a Quidditch accident, Harry’s brain gets scrambled with interesting results.





	Freudian Slip

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skittykitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skittykitty/gifts).



> Written as a gift for a Spring Exchange!
> 
> Beta-read by Aria and essa (exarite) <3

“Harry!” someone gasped from the Quidditch stands. People were pointing at him, yelling and gesturing wildly, but it was too late.

Harry’s grip slipped from the broom, and then he was plummeting through clouds from over five hundred meters…falling… _falling…_

Even as he was falling, he managed to glimpse Riddle’s face near the back of the Slytherin bleachers. Dark eyes wide open, yet not a hair out of place. The perfect image of a well-meaning, concerned Head Boy, pointing a glowing wand in Harry’s direction.

A perfect _lie._

Tom Riddle had never felt concern for another person a day in his life. He was, in every way, emotionless and inhuman.

The last thing Harry remembered thinking as he hurtled towards the ground, his eyes fluttering shut, was that he should have at least punched Riddle in the face.

At least _once_ in his life.

 

 

Harry woke up to a horrible pounding in his head.

He shifted on the white infirmary bed, rubbing a hand over the edge of his brow before squinting his eyes open.

“Ugh.” He winced as the bright, hospital-white light streamed into his vision, worsening the pounding in his head.

Madame Pomfrey’s stoic face hovering above him didn’t help.

“Good, you’re awake.” She leaned forward, handing him a potion. “Drink this for the headache. You’re lucky—”

Right then, a tall, redheaded boy banged open the doors to the Hogwarts Infirmary and rushed in, placing two hands on the edge of Harry’s bed.

“Mate, thank goodness.” Ron shook his head dramatically. “That was some nasty fall there.”

His featured darkened sulkily. “If Riddle hadn’t—”

“Did we win?” Harry asked, sitting up quickly in bed. Ron looked away and began to fidget, opening his mouth hesitantly. But before he could reply, Harry’s head spun as another wave of dizziness overcame him.

“ _Careful_ , Mr. Potter. Slow movements.” Madame Pomfrey tutted as she righted Harry up, narrowing a stern look in Ron’s direction.

“And give him some space please, Mr. Weasley. In fact,” Pomfrey glanced at Ron before shooting Harry a meaningful look, “I _do_ need to discuss your injury with you…”

Harry waved a hand. “Oh, he can stay.”

“…Very well,” she said, though the narrowed look of disapproval she shot the pair of them suggested her opposing sentiments.

She turned her focus solely upon Harry. “As I was saying earlier, you’re lucky to have sustained nothing more than a concussion to your head. That is one of the few areas of the body where Wizarding medical treatment _cannot_ perform miracles—you ought to be more careful with it!”

Harry swallowed dryly, remembering the state of Neville’s parents after prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus. Head injuries and mental trauma were definitely difficult to treat, with or without magic.

Pomfrey gestured towards one of the (oddly Muggle) monitors in the corner, which seemed to show a reading of Harry’s brain. There was a reddish-orange clump hovering near the top of the image, where the front of his brain was located.

“While we managed to fix most of the damage immediately, there is one part of your brain that seems to have been activated and won’t switch off. Something related to your language center.”

Pomfrey glanced back at Harry evaluatively. “However, it doesn’t seem to be serious, so it must not be having much of an effect. Either way, it should go away within a few weeks, at most.”

Harry nodded, then jerked as another jolt of pain shuddered through his head. Merlin, this would take getting used to.

Pomfrey sighed before disappearing to the back of the room, hopefully to fetch more headache potions.

Ron nudged Harry, tossing him a sly look. “It’s lucky you’re so thick-headed.”

Harry rolled his eyes, shoving him back. “Oh shut up, Sillyhead.”

Ron froze, uttering a sound halfway between laughter and an indignant squawk.

“What did you just call me?”

Harry blinked, rubbing the back of his neck. Yeah, that hadn’t sounded quite right to him either. “Sorry, I meant—Sillyhead.”

His eyebrows furrowed. _What the hell?_

“Sillyhead,” Harry tried again, feeling sweat beginning to build up. “Sillyhead.” _Shit. What was happening._

Ron frowned. “Mate, you’d better not be messing with me—”  

“I’m not!” Harry cried, putting a hand to his mouth. Panic began to build at the pit of his stomach. What was wrong with him? He shut his eyes in concentration, curling his tongue just so to form the beginning of the ‘R’ sound of ‘Ron’—

“Sillyhead. _Crap._ Sillyhead. _Shit._ Sillyhe—”

Warm, freckled hands grasped his upper arms firmly.

“Harry, it’s okay mate.” Ron was soothing him… _Ron_ was soothing him. “Take it easy. It’s all right.”

“At ease, Mr. Potter.” Madame Pomfrey was back and looking down at him in concern. “Language center, remember? It’s probably just one of the side effects.”

“Yeah,” Ron added reassuringly. “I don’t mind being Sillyhead for a day or two. At least it’s not Won-Won.”

“At any rate,” Madame Pomfrey said as she handed Harry another headache potion. “Perhaps running a few more scans wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

 

 

Two days after the match against Hufflepuff, Hermione and Ron were blatantly staring at Harry as he finished up breakfast at the Great Hall.

“Mate,” Ron asked cautiously, “You sure you want to hold practice tomorrow?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry replied simply, determination fierce in his tone. Head injuries and evil, pranking Slytherins wouldn’t be getting in his way this year. Gryffindor House had a Quidditch Cup to win.

Hermione pursed her mouth in disapproval. “ _Harry—”_

“Absolutely,” Harry interrupted, looking up at both of his best mates. “We’ve already lost one match. We can’t afford to lose another.”

This was Harry’s last year as Quidditch Captain, and he was determined to win the House Cup. Finishing off the year without one would just be tragic.

He crossed his arms and looked at Ron determinedly. “You _know_ this is important to us, Sillyhead.”

Ron choked on his orange juice as Hermione brought her textbook back up to cover her face, barely able to stifle her own giggles.

“Harry!” Ron cried, looking around.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered under his breath.

He poured himself another glass of milk. Not that anything would help him grow much at this point, he thought with a scowl. Again, Harry’s eyes wandered towards the other end of the Great Hall, where a certain, unfairly tall Head Boy was seated.

_Jerk._

Right then, Tom Riddle glanced away from whomever he’d been talking with and made eye contact with Harry.

Dark eyes bore into his own, like an inexplicable black hole drawing him in—

Riddle looked away, his features passive and unreadable, and Harry blinked.

The irresistible urge to punch Tom Riddle struck him once more. And it was not just out of a sheer desire to punch him for being so goddamn irritating, but out of an unconscious, much deeper desire to elicit _something_ out of the man. Shock rippling over his features or anger tightening them. Anything. A darker part of Harry whispered that even just seeing blood dripping out of Riddle’s nose, staining that perfect, stone-like demeanor…might satisfy him.

Harry eventually tore his eyes away from his school rival and glanced back towards his friends. Ron was still eating and hadn’t looked up from his bacon for a moment since questioning him. But Hermione, ever observant, was watching him with that familiar exasperation.

“Really, Harry? The man _saved_ you during the match and you still harbor such blatant hatred for him?”

Harry bristled at the reminder of what Riddle had done. For some reason, the Head Boy had actually slowed down Harry’s falling body, potentially saving him.

And he still couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

“Defending Riddle?” Ron exclaimed, beating Harry to it. “He’s an _evil_ Slytherin. He could have been to one to plan the whole dementor trick in the first place.” Ron scowled, “Which was a pretty low blow, so it had to be a Slytherin.”

Harry sighed into his breakfast. Yes, it had been a nasty prank, all things considered; everyone knew he heard his dead mother’s voice when faced with the Dark Creatures.

But what was plaguing him, more than anything, was…

Why on earth had Riddle saved him, when all he’d ever done was be an asshole?

Their rivalry went way back.

It had all started on the train to Hogwarts, back in their First Year. Everyone from Harry’s train compartment had been searching for Neville’s toad—that was how he’d met Hermione, after all—when he’d come upon a particularly quiet compartment.

Harry had silently slid open the door to reveal the sole passenger seated within it.

A young boy, small and dark-haired, had been staring out of the window with a textbook laying forgotten upon his lap. Harry had never forgotten the way Riddle looked in that first moment. It was vividly painted into his memory, everything from Riddle's meticulously coiffed hair down to his scuffed shoes.

Maybe it was because it had been the only time he’d ever come across a Hogwarts student _smaller_ than him (at the time), or because of how childishly angelic he’d looked, with his big eyes and high cheekbones and aristocratic features.

Most likely, though, it was because Riddle had been making the oddest expression at the time of their meeting.

He’d looked like a model out of an impressionist painting, glancing over the misty, Scottish hills with an expression that, upon further examination, wasn’t exactly blank, but contemplative. In fact, it could have been anything: wistful, brooding. In hindsight, it had been oddly mature and serious and knowing, seeming out of place on the youthful face.

Just by outward appearances alone, Tom Riddle was a series of contradictions. 

For a few moments, Harry had merely stared at the boy’s face in fascination, trying and failing to figure out what kind of expression it held…

And then Riddle had turned his head abruptly, the faraway look disappearing from his dark eyes as they'd widened a fraction. A large green snake Harry hadn’t noticed before had suddenly lifted its head from the darker green benches opposite of Riddle, hissing before—without warning—it struck.

Harry had jumped back with a yelp as Riddle hissed something, as if speaking to the snake. But the snake had already pounced towards the floor, and in its jaw it held a struggling, croaking figure for a split second before snapping its mouth shut and swallowing it down.

Riddle’s snake had eaten Neville’s toad.

Moments later, the snake had settled back onto the bench, blending back into it as it began to rest once more. Traces of blood had leaked down from its jaw and dried along its long spine.

Harry, who had been gripping the door sill tightly and holding back the urge to throw up or scream, turned to the dark-eyed boy in horror…only to see him impassively staring out of the window again, as if nothing had happened. The only sign otherwise was the sigh that had escaped his mouth.

A mouth that had been _hissing._

“Hey. Your snake just a-ate Neville’s toad.” Harry had said eventually, his voice oddly calm and neutral save for a quiver on the word _‘ate.’_ Perhaps he'd been unconsciously projecting the demeanor of the boy before him. Either way, he was too shaken to yell or do anything out of the ordinary at first, too frazzled to prevent himself from doing anything but stating the obvious.

Silence followed.

Had he been heard? Ignored?

“So?” the other boy had murmured eventually without turning his head from the window.

_So?_

Harry had gritted his teeth then, anger licking down his spine.

_So?_

He’d clenched his fists. What kind of response was that?

Harry had stalked forward, entering the compartment and stopping a few feet away from the other boy. And finally, _finally,_ those pretty dark eyes had landed on him.

Long lashes had fluttered as they’d narrowed with cold, contained disinterest.

Harry had fumed. “Your snake just ate another boy’s pet, and that’s all you have to say?”

“There is nothing to say. It died.”

The other boy had raised an eyebrow in challenge, as if to say, _What else do you expect me to do?_

Harry, very much a young First Year and still shaken from the scene he’d witnessed, still confused as to why the other boy _wasn’t_ as shaken _,_ had merely clenched his jaw and glared at the smaller boy one last time before leaving the compartment without a word.

 _Inhuman,_ he’d thought, as the door slammed shut behind him. The boy’s expression had been inhuman, just like the rest of him.

_— But Harry Potter had never noticed the way Tom’s hands had remained clenched into fists long after Harry’s disappearance, shaking. He never knew of the way Tom’s eyes had fixated on the dried blood upon his snake’s scales, as if paralyzed, or the way his mouth soundlessly had chanted, “So this is Death.”_

_Fear gripped him like any other human, but Tom had refused to acknowledge it. Emotions made him weak—_

Harry never forgot that strange, gruesome first encounter with Riddle. And since then, every interaction with him had only been a series of unfortunate events.

Not long after the train incident, Harry—getting back from dropping Neville off at the infirmary—had caught sight of Riddle holding Neville’s Remembrall in his hand during Flying lessons. When Riddle had seen Harry stalking towards him furiously, he’d only continued to stand in place, still as a rock, his face just as emotionless.

“Haven’t you tortured Neville enough!” he’d cried, snatching the ball from Riddle’s hand before he could react.

— _“Give it here,” Tom had said, the tone of his voice demanding as he’d cornered the Malfoy brat. “Give it here, before Harry comes and makes a fuss.”_

_“Harry?” Malfoy had sneered, precariously holding the glass ball between two fingers. “On first-name basis with Potty, are you?”_

_But Harry Potter hadn’t been there to see it—_

Then, these days, there was Potions. Many times, Harry caught Riddle passing by and sneaking things into Harry’s cauldron when he looked the other direction. But whenever Harry confronted him about it, Riddle would just _look_ at him with that odd, impassive expression, neither admitting guilt nor defending himself.

Worse, professors and students always took Riddle’s side, claiming the Head Boy was just _helping_ him because Harry was “slightly hopeless at Potions.” Even Hermione had noted that the potions Riddle had meddled with never exploded or did anything weird.

Harry snorted. Most likely, they were all just blinded by his handsome looks and the elusive, mysterious air he gave off.

So, unfortunately, it was something Riddle still continued to do.

 

Harry was still frowning and continuing to relive dark memories on their way to class when Hermione nudged him.

“You’re still thinking about Riddle, aren’t you?” she sighed quietly, her eyebrows raised.

“Of course I am!” Harry gritted his teeth, restraining the urge to look at the man in question. “You know, it isn’t completely unfounded to suspect him of being the one to plan the dementor trick in the first place. He’s been messing with me a lot, lately.”

“Oh?” Hermione crossed her arms.

Harry splayed his hands upwards. “He threw cockroaches into my Draught of the Living Death the other day. _Cockroaches,_ while I was in the closet, going around the room, looking everywhere for _butterflies_ …”

He’d never found them in the end. But that was irrelevant... 

“...Harry?” Hermione spoke with confusion. “Why on _earth_ were you searching for butterflies?”

Harry crossed his arms, leaning back. “Because they were one of the key ingredients.” He’d only been following the book, after all.

She shot him a look of disbelief. “Butterfly _cockroaches._ The instructions had called for butterfly cockroaches, a type of cockroach.”

_Oh._

Harry flushed with embarrassment.

Ron sniggered, and Hermione shot him a glare. “Oh, as if you wouldn’t have made the same type of careless mistake had you gotten into NEWT Potions.”

That shut him up.

Hermione turned back towards Harry. “You should be glad that the Head Boy cares enough to watch out for you! Butterflies have very volatile properties, the potion could have exploded!”

Harry spluttered, feeling his ears begin to redden. _Cares?_ “That’s _not_ the point. He just does it to—to—” he had no clue why. “The point is, he can’t just put things into _my_ cauldron behind my back…”

He continued to stumble over his argument against Riddle, ignoring the way Hermione and Ron exchanged knowing glances.

 

 

The side effects of Harry’s concussion took longer than expected to wear off. In fact, after a full week had passed, they hadn’t worn off at all.

He was embarrassed about it, but people were taking it surprisingly well.

“Thank you, Boss Lady,” he told Hermione after she helped him with her homework, when the three of them were sitting in the library. He’d tried to put off calling Hermione by her name, fully aware of the consequences. But even though Hermione’s face turned bright red when he finally slipped, Harry could tell that she wasn’t too mad about the nickname.

Ron snickered with amusement the first few times as well. Then he frowned, thinking out loud, “So she’s Boss Lady, but I’m _Sillyhead?_ ”

“Rather fits your _true_ age, doesn’t it?” Hermione tossed back sardonically, causing Harry to chuckle as they broke into friendly banter.

During Quidditch practice—

“Faster, Hot Legs,” Harry called, as Ginny chased after the quaffle.

He’d blushed furiously as everyone, including Ginny, turned to him in surprise. Surprisingly, Dean Thomas—her boyfriend—was the first to break out into laughter.

“No hard feelings, mate,” Dean said loudly after practice, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Can’t help yourself, can you?”

The team sniggered again at the reminder of Harry’s accidental nickname, and all he could do was shrug and sheepishly rub the back of his neck.

Then, during Potions—

Harry was stirring his cauldron, counting and darting his eyes around the room in search of a familiar tall, dark-haired Head Boy.

Riddle was standing two rows in front of him behind a desk against the wall, right next to a window. Good. He was far away enough that Harry wasn’t in danger of receiving any accidental ‘help’ now.

Besides, Riddle was heavily concentrated on his own cauldron. His dark, thickly-lashed eyes were narrowed in thought, his long fingers paused and hovering above an ingredient on his table. He pursed his lips as he stared at the ingredient, the action hollowing out his cheeks attractively, before picking it up and putting it in his potion.

And then he was removing his cloak for the next step. Riddle began to stir his cauldron, the muscles in his arms visibly tightening and flexing in his short-sleeved, white shirt. Fumes from the potion began to rise from Riddle’s cauldron. Harry could see the way they were physically affecting him, because Riddle’s hair was falling over his eyes, released out of their usual combed-back style and damper than usual.

And it was strange, but Riddle didn’t seem like an emotionless, bullying bastard right now. _No,_ he seemed...

Harry swallowed dryly when Riddle paused, raking his hair back from his forehead. When he straightened up like that it was easy to see that he was the tallest, largest student in the room—like _fuck,_ he was huge—

“So I hear you have a bit of a speech problem, huh, Potter?” Malfoy sneered, tauntingly walking forward. “But that’s nothing new, is it?”

“Oh, shut up, Daddy’s Boy,” Harry tossed back without looking.

The whole class went insane with raucous laughter, and even Harry’s mouth twitched in amusement despite how internally flustered he felt.

Harry glanced darkly at his swirling, discolored potion. What kind of useless, horrifying thoughts had he just been _thinking…_

“Ten points from Gryffindor for inappropriate name-calling,” Snape drawled, sweeping past Harry.

Harry looked up at his professor, finally distracted from his earlier thoughts. He bit his lower lip, holding back a smirk.

To speak or not to speak…

“That’s not fair…Grumpypants.”

Snape stilled.

The students fell silent.

Harry’s eyes widened. If he’d known _that_ of all names would be falling from his tongue… “I didn’t mean—I mean, it’s not like I can control—”

“Fifty points from Gryffindor,” Snape thundered, “for _sheer impertinence._ ”

The Gryffindors all shot him dirty looks after that.

Harry shriveled back into his seat, looking back down at his textbook while trying to look as respectful as possible. But out of the corner of his eyes, he saw something extraordinary.

It was the barest hint of a curl to Riddle’s lips, but the expression was unmistakable.

Riddle was _smiling._

 

 

Needless to say, all of Hogwarts knew about Harry’s condition before the week was over.

Hermione’s words and the incidents from the past few weeks had left him more confused about Riddle than ever. He didn’t know what to think of the Slytherin. He was vague to the point of rudeness, unemotional to the point of inhumanity. He bullied Gryffindors just like every Slytherin that had ever existed.

But he’d saved Harry from falling to his death, and apparently, he’d also been saving Harry’s Potions grade this whole time.

And maybe he’d hated Riddle all this time. And maybe he hadn’t—

But, _ugh,_ he couldn’t wipe that _stupid,_ barely-there smile from his thoughts.

 _Or those dark eyes,_ a small voice taunted at the back of his head. _Or the rest of him…_

So yeah, Harry was taking everything in stride, laughing with everyone else whenever he ‘slipped.’ And thankfully, he hadn’t called any of his peers anything _too_ insulting.

But there was one person he’d actively been avoiding. Because Harry had no clue what would be coming out of his mouth when he bumped into Tom Riddle again. It would either be something extremely rude—or something unimaginably, horrifically embarrassing.

Harry was sitting next to Hermione and Ron in the Great Hall, stuffing breakfast down his throat while finishing up a Defense assignment, when his eyes were instinctively, habitually drawn to the other side of the room.

Riddle’s usual seat was empty. Hmmm…his eyes wandered the Great Hall in search of Riddle…

Harry froze.

Riddle was walking towards the Gryffindor table, looking directly _at_ Harry.

_Shoot shoot shoot sh—_

“Harry?” Ron asked with concern.

“Guys!” Harry gasped. “It’s Ssss—”

He stopped himself, biting his lip. Perhaps now wouldn’t be the best time to introduce an unknown nickname, especially  _his._

Hermione and Ron were seated opposite of Harry, their backs to the rest of the Great Hall.

Harry jerked his head forward in the direction of Riddle, trying to gesture wordlessly to the area behind them. They still didn’t seem to get it, and when Harry jerked his head again, they only continued to stare at Harry like he was a madman, or perhaps a mad chicken…

“It’s… _You-Know-Who_!” Harry cried eventually.

And then Ron was turning back to see who it was, and Hermione was rolling her eyes because she _knew_ who it was, and Harry—Harry was—

Packing up and running the hell out of the Great Hall.

“Bye,” Harry said, except it was more like a squawk. And damn, he really was a chicken, running away from _Riddle_ of all people. It was times like these that he was ashamed to call himself a Gryffindor.

But he just didn’t want to confront his feelings, didn’t want to put a name to the breath-sucking, stomach-tingling sensation he felt whenever Riddle so much as glanced at him sideways.

 

 

It was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened.

At half past midnight, Harry was wandering down to the kitchens for a snack, tickling the pear that granted him access. He walked in, closing the entrance behind him and looking back over his shoulder to make sure nobody had seen him, even though he was _invisible_ —

And then he walked straight into someone. Invisibility Cloak and all.

It was Riddle.

Harry jumped back, panicking silently. Why had Riddle just been _standing_ there, at the entrance, in a dark room all by himself? 

Had he be been waiting for Harry?

“Harry,” Riddle sighed, even though Harry was pretty sure he was still invisible. His arms were crossed firmly his chest, and then Riddle was walking towards the table in the kitchens, where two dishes had been laid out at opposite ends of a long table. “Here, sit. Have some treacle tart.”

Harry paused, before slowly making his way to the table. How did Riddle know that it was Harry’s favorite dessert? He moved the chair back and sat in it, still not picking up the fork and tasting the treacle tart because, no matter how delicious it looked, he still didn’t trust Riddle.

So the treacle tart was _bait,_ which meant this was some sort of trap. Harry frowned as sat down. Was he really that...  _predictable_?

“You can remove the Invisibility Cloak, if that makes you more uncomfortable,” Riddle said eventually, his voice tinged with amusement. But his face remained impassive as ever, his eyes glittering indecipherably.

“Nah, I’m good,” Harry replied, tightening his cloak around himself. Riddle was the only thing making him uncomfortable. It had only taken two seconds of staring at his stupid, handsome face to remember why he hated the bloke. If Riddle wanted to be his unemotional brick self, _so be it,_ Harry wouldn’t reveal anything either…literally…not even a _finger…_

“So,” Riddle crossed his fingers neatly, his dark eyes flashing in Harry’s direction. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

And Harry thought about denying it, but what slipped out was, “You noticed?”

Riddle’s right eyebrow twitched. “How could I not? You used to pick fights with me. So eagerly too.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his chin resting upon woven fingers. “I stood still for half a second and you seemed to find me, barging in out of nowhere to shout hateful words at me.”

Harry flushed. “You’re _always_ standing still. Even a turtle—” or a toad, “would find you.”

Riddle stood. “And you’re always moving, always talking.” He walked around the corner of the table, coming closer. “Ever heard of Newton’s laws of motion? They teach them in Arithmancy, so probably not—but the beginning of the first rule states, ‘An object in motion always stays in motion.’”

He sat on the table, right next to where Harry’s treacle tart was.

“Harry, you’re constantly accelerating through life. So quick to judge, to run away, to rush into a fight,” Riddle leaned into where Harry was frozen on his chair, like a snake approaching its paralyzed prey.

“Just stop for a second and _think._ ”

Throughout his speech, Riddle’s cadence had never changed. He was like a professor, maintaining clarity and precision in his manner of speech but never straying from his cold, academic tone.

But that last word was emphasized in a way the others hadn’t been, and as Harry stared up into Riddle’s eyes with an inexplicable wonder, those dark eyes as alluring as ever—

Riddle grasped the material of Harry’s cloak on his shoulder and tugged hard, banging Harry’s wrist against the edge of the table and revealing him.

_No!_

Harry had fallen from his chair with the force of Riddle’s pull. He glared up at Riddle from the kitchen floor, unconsciously cradling his wrist.

“Oh _my_ ,” Riddle murmured, standing up and leaning over him with that ever-distant expression. “You just keep slipping, don’t you Potter? First your tongue, then the rest of you…”

As Harry flinched at the reminder of his condition, Riddle continued, “Oh yes, I’ve heard all about your accident, and it’s part of why I wanted to speak with you.”

Riddle tilted his head, and in a commanding tone of voice, he spoke.

“Say my name.”

Harry, still sprawled on the floor, was filled with a mixture of fury and indignation.

Riddle wanted one word, one little nickname that would spill all of Harry’s thoughts about Riddle. But that wasn’t even remotely fair when Riddle himself revealed nothing, _felt_ nothing.

Harry shook his head, releasing a hysterical laugh under his breath. He surged upwards into a sitting position, his limbs brimming with energy as he felt a sudden burst of power for the first time since he'd bumped into Riddle today.

No, Riddle wouldn’t be getting anything out of Harry. This was _his_ trump card, and he would play it whenever he wanted and hold it over Riddle’s head for as long as he liked—

“You’re hurt,” Riddle said suddenly, with that same curious, robotic tone that he always used, like he was noting down an observation.

But then Riddle got down on his knees next to him, clasping Harry’s wrists like they were something precious and examining them.

And Harry couldn’t stand it, he was so frustrated by all the mixed messages—why did Riddle act like this? Not an inch of genuine emotion, of vulnerability, ever danced across his features, no matter how much Harry insulted or ignored him and yet—

“Don’t act like you care,” Harry spat, tearing his wrist away from Riddle’s grip. He stood up from the floor, done with the conversation, done with _him_ but unable to tear his eyes from Riddle’s _._ “Don’t you _ever_ act with me. You’ve never cared for anyone in your life.”

Harry leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing onto Riddle’s. “Ever since the day I met you, I’ve known that there’s something not quite _right_ with you.”

Riddle’s eyes widened dramatically, or perhaps it _seemed_ dramatic because Harry had never seen the man so surprised…genuinely or otherwise.

And then his handsome features featured twisted into something ugly, anger furrowing his eyebrows and hardening his mouth and it was— _fuck,_ the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen—not cold or polite or distasteful, but pure, uninhibited _fury—_

But it was too late.

Harry had stood up and turned away and walked towards the entrance, snatching his Invisibility Cloak off the table and opening the door. A firm hand enclosed his wrists, and when it still wouldn’t let go after he shook his arm furiously, Harry turned his head towards Riddle.

“Fuck off, Sweetheart,” Harry spat, his hand clenching in Riddle’s grip as he attempted to shake it off once more.

He froze, his breath stopping.

He slowly looked upward in horror.

Riddle was staring at him too, his mouth slightly open, all anger drained from him within in an instant. In his shock, he’d finally let go of Harry’s wrist.

He was looking at Harry with that familiarly odd expression—the one he’d always mistaken for impassive and blank. Except when Harry looked at him from this close-up, he could suddenly see shock written into his loosened mouth, fascination painted along his arched eyebrows, and…something _else_ glittering in his eyes. Something painfully _warm._

This was the expression Harry had been attempting to pin down. And he’d never been able to, always mistaking it for nothingness, blankness when really—it was a mixture of all sorts of complicated emotions blended together so finely. Fascination, anger, shock, _adoration..._ it had all been buried under masks _…_ but still visible, still _there,_ if one looked closely enough _…_

“Harry,” Riddle— _Tom_ said, his voice hoarse and strange. “Just because I suppress my emotions doesn’t mean I don’t _have_ them.”

Harry inhaled sharply.

And then Tom was wrapping an arm around Harry’s waist, tugging him closer. A forehead touched his own, and a shuddering breath was exhaled over his mouth.

“I knew it,” Tom whispered almost feverishly, his mouth barely an inch away from Harry’s. “I _knew_ it. The way you kept looking at me…it drove me _mad…_ ”

“You don’t know _anything_!” Harry gritted out, wildly attempting to break out of Tom’s arm around his waist.

Tom tightened his grip, holding Harry tightly against himself as he arched a sardonic eyebrow. A sweet-as-fuck smile crept across his lips, taunting him.

“Is that so, _Sweetheart?_ ”

Harry exhaled unevenly, unable to stop himself from shuddering into Tom’s chest.

“No, no, _no_. Shut _up_ ,” he breathed inanely against the side of Tom’s neck, his hands curled into fists.

A hand ran up Harry’s neck before fisting into his locks, pulling Harry’s head back. Tom locked eyes with him, commanding and wanting all at once.

“Say it again. My name,” he said, his voice rough and low and animalistic.

Defiance ringing in every part of his body, Harry looped his arms around Tom’s neck and brought the taller man’s head down to his own, touching their foreheads once more.

“Make me,” Harry dared him through gritted teeth, taunting Tom back.

And then Tom was slanting his mouth against Harry’s, devouring him roughly. He bit Harry’s bottom lip and opened Harry up with his tongue, and Harry’s eyes rolled back as his senses were overwhelmed.

Tom’s cool, citrusy scent contrasted with the warm traces of treacle tart on his tongue, swirling with Harry’s. He slammed Harry back against the now-closed door, a muscled arm splaying against the door from elbow down as he ran his other hand down Harry’s side.

Harry tore his mouth away to breathe, unable to keep up with the hot thrills that ran down his spine. Waves of pleasure eroded at his senses, his sensibilities, until Tom was kissing down Harry’s neck and Harry was _gone,_ he had ceased to exist.

 _Tom,_ Harry moaned internally, except it came out as another hoarse, broken, “Sweetheart.”

And this time, Harry kissed him, warmly, _softly._ He sighed into Tom’s mouth, and Tom sighed back. His whole body seemed to shiver, tingling as it sunk into the taller man’s of its own will.

They both slid to the floor, still clinging to each other.

The next time one of them pulled back, it was Tom. He was hovering over Harry, palming a hand over his cheek. Dark eyes bore into his own, as magnetic as ever, and Harry just wanted to fall into them forever... 

“You are my _everything._ ”

Harry choked, or he sobbed. He wasn’t sure. All he could do was put his hands against Tom’s chest and pushed back, wanting to clarify everything despite the way his own head was spinning. “But…you…”

“I tried so hard to fight them,” Tom gasped, running a hand down Harry’s side and leaving a hot trail of shivers down his spine. “These emotions. But you brought them back. And—surely you must _know_ —everything I’ve done has always been for you.”

A firm hand grasped Harry’s jaw, fingers sliding down to meet at his chin. Tom locked eyes with Harry, a rare vulnerability shining through those darkened depths.

“But I still don’t understand them. I’ve repressed them for so long that sometimes…”

Harry ran his thumb over Tom’s lower lip, stopping the rest of his words from leaving his mouth. 

“Then let me show you,” Harry said gently, leaning up to kiss the junction of Tom’s jaw and neck tenderly.

“Let me show you, Sweetheart.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Man, idk why this work had references to everything from Shakespeare to Newton's laws. 
> 
> Hope you liked it!
> 
> (The premise of this work—MC gets a head injury and can't stop calling people names—is inspired by a Star Trek work called Miscommunication by sinestrated. If you're active in that fandom, I definitely recommend checking that work out!)


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